


The White Raven

by BowsandAROs



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Angel Wings, Angels vs. Demons, Anti-Hero, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood, Blood Drinking, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Crimes & Criminals, Deities, Eventual Romance, Fantasy, Gods, High Fantasy, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Magic, Magic-Users, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Norwegian Mythology & Folklore, Old Norse, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Mythology, Original Universe, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowsandAROs/pseuds/BowsandAROs
Summary: In the Daemon capitol of Kingshelm, there live two courts, one on the surface, and one that rules from the shadows. At the head of this court is a Queen, not by lineage or wealth, but by blood and power. She rules with an iron fist and does not suffer fools, and her kingdom is a nation of beggars and theives. Yet people are beginning to vanish, and suddenly a prize that could change everything lies within her reach. In order to keep the balance, Faye must discover the source of true darkness in her city, but if she fails, she may very well destroy it.





	1. WARNING

To my wonderful readers, 

This story is extremely close to my heart, and is a project that I have been working on for several years now. However, it does contain topics and scenarios that many find triggering or disturbing. Below is a list of trigger warnings one can expect to encounter in this story. Please, if any of these prove too much, I urge you to reconsider reading this work, as it is meant for mature audiences. 

Sex (can become graphic in places)  
Abuse  
Blood  
Mature language  
Rape  
Slavery 

Blood drinking


	2. Faye

The pretty, well-kept street is the perfect picture of serene, unbothered wealth. Homes of pure, perfect marble, imported stone, and ornate, expensive woods squat like beautiful, vicious spiders in some grand, exotic web. Lovely gardens frame each dwelling, the dark grasses and unnaturally brilliant flowers kept alive for no purpose beyond useless, vain ornamentation. Above, the sun shines over the rim of the canyon, golden light shining down onto the pale cobblestone road. 

It makes her skin crawl.

Her view of the daylit lane is unobstructed from her perch atop one of the tallest, most ridiculous mansions, the summer home of the Collins family. The house, like the rest of its brethren lining the street, is pressed against the side of the canyon, rather than being carved into the ancient rock like most of the buildings in the city. Only the very wealthy can ever afford to have their homes built along streets such as this, where the rich and powerful can look up and see the sky above instead of far-away ceilings of glimmering stone.

Pompous, wretched, money-hoarding bankers. 

But they, sadly, are not her targets for this hunt. No, instead, her gaze lingers on the smaller mansion just next door, it's pale blue walls edged in white borders that look like the raptor-picked bones of some great beast. Balconies adorn the upper floors, where doors of marble and glass stand guarded by Daemons that are, no doubt, offered an excessive, ridiculous wage to keep her and her people out of those pretty blue walls.

Her stomach turns at the thought of such wealth - wooden homes are almost unheard of in this city, built as it is within the belly of the earth.

She frowns at the manor, at the wealth wasted on its inhabitants, her pale eyes glaring as she shifts to better fit the shrinking shadows of her hiding place.

It is nearly noon.

The balcony she's chosen is nearly hidden within the shadows of the house's western walls, the  light of the glaring autumn sun above unable to reach it just yet. The light hurts her eyes, even with her odd affinity for daysight - one few of her kind can boast. As a nocturnal people, most Daemons - especially Purebloods like her - find sunlight extremely painful if exposed to it for too long. 

It is that affinity that now allows her to study the single, well-armed female that stands between her and the glass doors to Gawain Locheihn's study. Her cyan wings shine in like beacons in the harsh light, though her hair and face are hidden by a dark cowl to protect her eyes. Swords and knives flash at her waist, and a polished longbow peaks out from behind one shoulder. 

Well, this should be fun.

There are many other Daemons lingering on the grounds and balconies of the house, but those don't worry her, as they wouldn't even have a clue she had ever been here. That female, though, might prove a nuisance.

However, that would only be the case should she turn quick enough to see the face of her killer before Faye's daggers find her heart.

A grin spreads itself across her lips at the thought.

Silent as a wraith, she moves, slinking through the fading shadows until she is poised on the edge of the roof, directly above that balcony, the guard completely unaware that her death lingers overhead.

For a race born with wings, her people almost never think to look directly above them, not here in Kingshelm. Instead, their gazes always linger on other branches of the canyon, each serving as naturally-lit squares like this neighborhood for the wealthy Pureblood nobles to enjoy away from the massive expanse of gaping caverns and caves making up the majority of the capitol. 

They never expect a threat to come from right above them.

Her boots, soled in rubber, make no sound as she braces herself on the lip of the roof, her body poised to strike as she readies her knives. Her body is clothed in midnight black, the darkness of her loose, nonrestrictive clothing broken only by the paleness of her skin and the silver of her long braid.

The guard turns to survey the street, a movement meant only to last a moment.

She jumps, knives out.

The female doesn't even have time to scream before the blades find their place in her chest, black blood coating the metal before falling in a dark puddle at their feet. It takes only three heartbeats for her body to slump, a lifeless weight, to the marble floor of the balcony.

Removing her blades, Faye pauses only long enough to wipe the blood off on the fallen mercenary's dark armor. A moment longer, and Faye has palmed the dead girl's knives, the weapons of too fine a make to simply leave behind. She has no money on her, a sign of the intelligence that had not been enough to save her.

Pity.

Slipping the weapons into her belt, Faye moves to kneel at the glass doors to the study, eyes flashing to take in the oversized mahogany desk covered in neat piles of documents and unopened letters awaiting the return of the male who usually occupies the ornate seat behind it. Her picks are warm in her ungloved palms, having been pressed against her wrists for several hours as she'd worked. They slip easily into the simple, silver keyhole, and it takes barely a breath for a soft click to pierce the tentative silence.

A moment later and she's inside the room, the door closing soundlessly behind her due to the hinges kept oiled for the enjoyment if the owner.

Fool.

She allows herself a heartbeat to observe the room's layout, despite the fact that she'd known it a week in advance thanks to Kaxim.

Imported furniture, ornate wooden seats, paintings far too well-made to be anything but original works, and floors of marble so clean she can see her own cold expression mirrored back at her. Opulence - vain, simple, and utterly expected.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes as she approaches the desk, gaze raking over each document. None of them catch her attention, the signatures those of the wealthy bigots who lord over the pompous fools who believe that this city belongs to them. However, it is the large, silver ring placed carelessly atop a small pile of opened letters that make her lip curl.

As though he honestly didn't think anyone would dare touch it, as though it was utterly unthinkable that anyone could breach his little castle of wood and bones.

She snatches up the ring, studying the image of a tall, blooming oak tree etched into it, the picture carved deep so as to press perfectly into the wax it is meant to seal. To mark.

The House Ring of the Locheihn family.

He might as well have signed his own death warrant, the arrogant prick.

She pockets her prize with a soft chuckle, her braid swaying as she shakes her head. Job done, Faye wonders if she should risk poking around a bit, as she is well aware that, somewhere in this house, there is a safe full of Fé.

No.

She has what she's come for. It would be a waste of her time and a fool's mistake to linger. Besides, Talon asked to meet with her about some trouble brewing between the other gangs. She'd no doubt be asked to step in, to remind those brutes of their place.

She turns back to the door, hand outstretched as she reaches for the handle-

"It seems a shame to spill that poor girl's blood for nothing but a little ring, don't you think?"

Faye whirls around, palming her knives as she snarls softly.

Where before there had been nothing but a lovely, imported rug, a male now stands, grinning down at her with teeth as white as bone. He's dressed entirely in black, the expensive quality of the clothes given away only by subtle silver embroidery. The darkness of his dress make his many intricate braids nearly garish in comparison, as they are a deep, true red. His massive, lovely wings are the same, and they flare out gracefully behind him as he smiles.

Her knives glint silver in the golden light of the room, but there is something in the male's gaze that make Faye reach for her power.

Only to find her magic in an iron grip, utterly useless.

"What in Hel's realm are you?" She hisses softly, baring her teeth as she meets his gaze.

Gods, his eyes.

A green so pure, so burning and _alive_ that she pauses.

They are not the eyes of any mortal she has ever encountered. There is something wrong, something _other_ about him.

The male's smile only grows.

"What a lovely little gift you have," he croons. "I've yet to meet anyone with a mental power as devastating as your's has the potential to be. A shame you've barely scratched the surface."

Disgust ripples through her at the thought of this _thing_ having any sort of hold on her power, and she can almost feel his own raking icy claws over it.

She hisses again, but the stranger only tskes, those haunting eyes falling away from her gaze to study long, well-kept nails.

"So beastly, and here I was expecting a female of civility and intellect. I must say I find myself quite disappointed after hearing so many stories of the infamous White Raven..."

She stills, her mind forcing back the fear, the primal rage at having her power tampered with, and making her _think_. This male knows exactly who he is dealing with, and yet he clearly doesn't fear her.

He is either a monster or a fool.

Those eyes lift to bore into her own, and it seems as if the answer is written there within the cold, amused smirk he gives her.

A monster then.

Interesting.

"Is there something that you want from me," she asks in a voice like ice. "Or have you simply come to test my patience?"

The smirk widens, and emerald eyes glint with wicked amusement.

"I've been looking for you for some time," he answers plainly, a hand moving to rest on his hip. His stance is casual, calm, and utterly unbothered.

It makes her want to roar.

Instead, she straightens slightly, her blades lowering the smallest bit as The Raven levels an icy glare at the male. She will not play this freak's game.

"And why," she murmurs coldly. "Is that?"

The air seems to grow colder as she watches him take a single, unhurried step closer to her, lean forward, and whisper with a lover's breath,

"I suppose you'll have to wait and see..."

Behind her, the glass doors open, the sound so unexpected that she turns, only to find no one there besides the cooling corpse of the guard. She whirls back around, only to find that the male has vanished, not even a scent remaining to show that he had even existed.

As though he had never been there at all.


	3. Zyphyr

Zypher is in an utterly wretched mood as the tunnel he's been flying through opens at last into a gaping cavern, teeth grinding as he fights the disgust rising in his throat. He has never enjoyed the feeling of blood on his skin, or as it soaks through his clothes after a job. Usually, he doesn't have to get up close and personal with his marks, but there are times when it simply can't be helped. His power is drained from a week of near-constant use, as many of the other gangs have been stirring up trouble throughout Underworld and needed to be put in their place.

He'd hoped that Faye would finally decide to get off her ass and do something about it, because his guys are becoming sick and tired of handling things. Honestly, he has as well. It's been three months since a low-ranked Blackhounds lackey up and vanished in the dead of day, a fact that many of them cared little about, at least until the next one went missing.

And another.

And another.

Already, the list of missing thieves, killers, and other career criminals has grown far too large for anyone's comfort, and the other gangs are beginning to grow restless as suspicions rise. This means more street fights and less work for him and his people, a fact that is beginning to cause unrest among The Crows, who care little about the disappearances. Their organization has never really bothered itself with the affairs of other gangs or the general community, at least not unless it earns them a hefty payout.

Things better calm down soon, or those street fights will become bloodbaths.

With a sigh that feels deafening in the silence of the empty air, Zyphyr banks, swooping down into the heart of Underworld.

Underworld: a massive, gaping cavern at the edge of the city's limits, and home to the capitol's unfortunate, the poor, and - most notably - its deadliest criminals.

Like most everything in Kingshelm, practically everything is made - either by hand or powerful magic - from the multicolored rock of the canyon. Buildings, dwellings, roads, and stairs  are carved into every inch of the towering cave walls. Far below, countless more encircle the glittering expanse of a massive underground lake, including the old Warehouse District - street after street of large, refurnished warehouses now home to the city's gangs, brothels, and dark markets.

The idea to move the crime ward of Kingshelm to these once dilapidated streets had been Faye's, a fact that never fails to surprise him when he looks out of his window to see the metropolis that now sprawls among the refurbished warehouses. He can still recall how she and Kaxim had warred with one another over where to move - Kax had fought tooth and nail for an old bathhouse up by The Docks.

Chuckling at the memory, he banks, spearing for the largest of the old warehouses, a massive grey building that had once belonged to the O'Sullivan family. What its purpose had been, he'd never cared enough to ask, and Faye had never offered up the information during the year it had taken to get the place up to her utterly ridiculous standards. During that time, she'd kicked poor Kaxim out of his uptown apartment and stayed there.

The memory brightens his mood the slightest bit as he lands atop one of The Nest's upper balconies, even as his stomach roils at the scent of the bastard's blood.

"Look who finally decided to show up," drawls a bored male voice, the sound as familiar to Zyphyr as his own breath.

He turns and finds Kaxim lounging atop a chaise lounge, dressed in his impeccable black and grinning like a tomcat.

Ignoring the urge to ignore his friend and rush off to bath, Z huffs a laugh as he meets the male's strange gaze.

Kaxim isn't a Daemon like the rest of them, or at least not wholly. None of them are really quite sure what he is, including the thief himself, a fact Zyphyr knows bothers the male more than he lets on. What they do know is that his parents, or at least one of them, had to have come from The Eastern Continent, a land of endless wealth, incredible food, and, if Kaxim himself is an estimate, the vainest race ever to grace the Gods' green earth. Most people who encounter the young male are horrified to find that he has no wings and, more often than not, find his powers to be...unsettling. His eyes, however, are his most striking feature- almond shaped and utterly black with sharp, slit pupils of deepest red that seem almost to glow from the depths of the male's face.

"Forgive us peasants who actually have to work every now and then to earn their keep, rather than sitting on our asses all the time" he deadpans, enjoying the flash of amusement that glimmers in that dark gaze. Kaxim has been his closest friend for decades, and it is always nice to be able to have a moment to simply banter the way they used to.

The thief only rolls his eyes, running a pale hand through his meticulously styled black hair with the thoughtless grace of a dancer. Zyphyr grins, knowing that things can't be all bad if Kaxim is still vainer than an empress.

Rightly so, if he's being honest, but that couldn't matter less to him.

"Any news?"

The hand stills, then lowers as Kaxim swallows, frowning. He nods, the motion little more than a dip of his chin. Just like that, his friend vanishes, the amused arrogance frozen into a deadly calm.

"Another missing, this time a female assassin working for Collinsdale. Same as the others- got an anonymous job offer from an unknown employer then vanished without so much as a word to her superiors. Her name was Therine Bryan, relatively new to Underworld, but showed quite a bit of skill for being so green. Apparently, she had quite an interesting power, though the details are murky. I'm going out later to gather more information, as Faye is in one of her moods again and I don't much feel like getting into it with her before I have the whole story."

Zyphyr frowns deeply, both at the news of the missing girl and at what he's learned about Faye. She's been doing so well lately, or as well as she ever does. The female isn't exactly known for being the most amiable, but he'd thought things might finally be changing with her. She's begun actually attempting conversation with them, even letting loose the occasional chuckle at Talon's notoriously dark humor. It'd felt almost as if she was beginning to let herself feel comfortable around them, but it seems there will still be a ways to go before things change.

The news doesn't sit well in his chest, and the assassin finds himself shifting on his feet as he shoves aside his concern for Faye. If another denizen of Underworld has vanished, another fight isn't likely to be far behind, which means he definitely needs to inform everyone to be on their guard. He hopes this won't cause too many problems on top of everything, but he is well aware that this could in no way make the situation any better, especially after so many of those who've gone missing have ties to his own gang.

He's met Therine, only once and it had been brief, but they'd met. She'd been kind, a trait that is, not surprisingly, uncommon in their line of work.

He shakes the thought away, then straightens, the movement catching Kaxim's eye.

"You're going to see her." It isn't a question, but he nods anyway.

Those red slits seem to widen imperceptibly, a bit of his friend peeking through as carefully painted lips pull down at the corners.

"I'll be home in a few hours if you need to get away for a bit," Kaxim says nonchalantly as he gets to feet, the fluidity of his movement almost distracting from his minute stature. "If I'm not there already should you decide to come over, you know the way in."

_Yes_ , Z thinks with an inward grin, _by breaking in through the upstairs window._

The apartment is never unlocked, less for security purposes and more because Kaxim lost the key to the place over twenty years ago.

Before he can reply, however, Kaxim gives him a small, private smile and vanishes into shadow, no doubt reappearing on one of the distant roofs barely visible through the open balcony behind him.

He lets his eyes linger on the city outside, allowing the sounds of the Daemons below to calm him as he attempts to mentally prepare for what he is certain will not be a pleasant conversation. Few of his conversations with Faye ever are, and those are on good days. On nights  like this, when her temper gets the best of her or she simply awakes feeling particularly wretched, most of them simply avoid speaking to her at all.

But not him.

He's never allowed himself to be cowed by her, power or no, even after she'd become one his co-heads and began giving commands and assigning jobs with brutal, startling efficiency. The Crows still answer to him, still look to him as the official Boss, but every single one of them fear Faye far more than they'd ever feared him. He'd long since earned their respect, had chosen to lead from a position of mutual understanding, but Faye never let anyone get close enough for even that. She gives her orders and expects them to be carried out, dealing out unflinching judgment should anyone fail to do so.

And yet, somehow, she's never once forced a single one of them to do something she'd known would go against that person's limits- emotional or physical. She seems to have a sort of sixth sense when it comes a person's moral code, and uses that knowledge to ensure that every job gets done by someone suited perfectly to it. He himself didn't quite understand it, how someone so brutal and cold could be so aware of other peoples' emotions and work around them without so much as a hint of _feeling_.

He sighs at the thought and begins steering himself down the stairs towards where he will no doubt find the female if she is in the sort of mood Kax has claimed- the kitchen.

Faye has a habit of raiding the liquor cabinet whenever she gets pissed, which occurs unnervingly often. For such a lean person, she can consume an unholy amount of alcohol.

Downstairs, a handful of Daemons sit gambling or simply talking in the many scattered seating areas. A few lounge on the sofas and plush chairs set in the well-lit corners of the massive room, books in their hands from the countless shelves lining every wall - each hand-picked and purchased by Faye, who has a passion for reading that borders on obsession. The rest sprawl across the many imported rugs that cover the hardwood floors, most of them youngsters not brave enough to claim places on the large sectionals that dominate the seating areas. None of them seem to mind however, as many of the rugs are made of thick, soft furs just as comfortable as the actual seats.

He cannot imagine why any of them would willingly be up this late in the day, but he's not one to judge.

Several Crows nod or smile in greeting as he passes, a few of the younger members even going so far as to bow their heads, and he finds himself returning the smiles. Perhaps this will not be as terrible as he thought, if the others are still unaware that The Raven is in one of her infamous tempers.

However, he quickly discovers that such hopeful thinking is utterly wrong as he enters the obnoxiously large kitchen.

Faye is lounging atop one of the long marble counter-tops, a bottle of their most expensive wine in her pale, bloodstained hands. Her silver hair is in its usual immaculate braid, and she wears her dark work clothes, though her gloves have been removed- likely to give her a better grasp on the bottle. Even from across the room, Zyphyr can tell that she is scowling, her pale-blue eyes glaring so viciously at the bottle that he wonders if it might spontaneously combust just to make her stop.

"What do you want?" she growls, the words far too soft for his liking.

She's always so aggravatingly difficult to deal with whenever she gets like this, and quite honestly it pisses him off. He doesn't feel like indulging her right now, but he isn't by any means stupid enough to push her too far when she's like this.

He leans against the stone wall of the kitchen, forcing his voice to sound as casual as possible as he replies.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are you simply going to keep glaring at that bottle all day?"

Her eyes flash to his from across the room, the burning temper within enough that he pauses.

What the hell happened?

"Go away, I don't feel like talking about it." She commands through clenched teeth, either not caring or too drunk to notice that he is covered in blood.

Zyphyr does no such thing, meeting her gaze evenly.

"I don't give a shit what you do or don't feel like doing, Faye. You and I have work to do that can't just be shoved aside simply because you feel like being miserable. What happened at Locheihn's?"

Silver eyes as cold as death glare back at him, and Z frowns at the total lack of warmth, of life, in those eyes.

"I did what needed to be done, and then I came back. Ring's on your desk upstairs, so you can do me a favor and go the fuck away," she growls.

He already knew that the job would be completed, and he's certain she knows that too.

"That isn't what I was asking about and you know it," he responds, aggravated.

Across the cold room, the female bares her teeth, her patience seemingly gone. He wonders if she will try to kill him as she once would have, long ago when they'd both despised one another simply for _existing_.

He crosses his arms, the dark fabric groaning softly as it stretches over his muscles.

"I don't need to explain myself to you or anyone else," Faye snarls.

Zyphyr is ready for the hurt the words bring, the disappointment at still having failed to earn her trust, so it's no trouble keeping his expression cold, his eyes hard. Even though it _does_ still hurt. Even though he's stuck by her for _fifty years_ , and this is his only thanks, his only acknowledgment.

"Fuck you, Faye," is all he says before pushing off from the wall and walking away, cursing himself for the pain in his chest.

Behind him, he hears to sound of glass shattering and a barked curse as wine spills over the stone floors of the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kaxim's dark eyes are soft in a way Zyphyr rarely sees as he hands him a glass of thick, black liquid. The larger male takes it gratefully, not entirely sure what to say to start the conversation.

He'd come here as soon as he'd scrubbed the blood off his skin, his wings aching and blood roaring with the exhaustion beginning to gnaw at him. Now, the pain feels like a blessing, a distraction from the fury building in his chest.

He is burning with rage and hurt, his power a violent, vicious force in his blood that he isn't entirely sure he can calm in his current state.

"That bad?" Kax murmurs, frowning.

Forcing himself to take several long, deep breaths, he meets his friend's gaze.

"Fifty years we've been by her side and she still treats us as though we're out to murder her. I just don't understand it, Kax. I thought, for once, that maybe - just maybe - she might let me in, but she's just the same as she was in the beginning. One second she's laughing with us, treating us like _people_ , and the next she completely shuts me down for asking her if she needs to talk. What sort of person does that shit?!"

The thief leans back in his chair, one hand lifting to run thin, quick fingers through the windswept hair he usually keeps utterly perfect. In his other hand, Kaxim holds his own drink - a dark amber liquid Zyphyr has never tried. The look on his face, though, fails to match the calm, unruffled aura of his care-free posture.

"Someone who has given every part of themselves away and been betrayed, or let someone in only to be tossed aside. We have no idea what Faye's story is, and can, therefore, make no judgments against her, regardless of how much we might want her to trust us. I met Faye before any of you guys, before she even joined up with the gang, and she hasn't really changed since then. Maybe now she's a bit more comfortable, but that - I can assume - is only because she knows that she holds all the cards. She's made herself vital to the survival of the group, and therefore ensured that nobody will ever risk pushing her by asking too many questions. It's rather ingenious actually."

Z keeps quiet, his knowledge of Kax's own story reminding him to shut the hell up for once. He understands that he doesn't have the right to judge Faye, but it is exactly that sort of thing that makes him so furious. She refuses to even give him the chance to decide for himself if she is worth judging or not. He wants to help her, to break through the wall she's built around herself so that he can see for himself the sort of female she is beneath it.

He wants to know if she is, in some way or form, like _him_ , because he is certain that if she is he can help her. He can make her see that life is more than their pasts, their mistakes, that it's worth fighting for.

And yet, there's Kaxim, who never lets anyone see the side of him Zyphyr has barely glimpsed in past years. He refuses to allow his past to slip into conversation, to infect the life he's built for himself, even when Zyphyr knows for a fact he's still just as damaged by it all as he'd been seven decades ago.

Maybe Faye is more like Kax than he thinks, someone who doesn't trust _themselves_ enough to let someone in like that again...

"Someone like you?" The words slip out before he can stop them, and he curses himself for the mistake.

But the smaller male merely gives his friend a sad smile, the expression more melancholy than Zyphyr has seen since that night all those decades ago. Within those familiar, beautiful eyes, memories swirl like poisoned laughter, and Zyphyr watches with horror as silver begins to line those marvelous eyes at whatever lost bit of happiness Kaxim is reliving.

"No," the male says, voice shaking. "Like _us_."


	4. Kaxim

The shadowed rooftops, back alleys, and forgotten corners of Kingshelm have been Kaxim's playground his entire life, ever since he came into his power. For two-hundred years he's familiarized himself with the city as only he can, learning the best ways to get around unseen, how to get out of any situation, and the ins and outs of the wealthiest districts. He is, without a doubt, the most prolific thief the capitol has ever encountered, and he is damned proud of it.

He smiles smugly down at the raucous, endless partying taking place in the Underworld's pleasure sector, hundreds of drunk, horny Daemons stumbling from building to building in pursuit of their next dose of temporary ecstasy. Males, females, and those in-between all jumbled together as they fight off their exhaustion from nonstop amusement, the majority of them likely destined to find themselves strewn throughout the district come the fast-approaching dawn. He's perched himself atop The Drunken Murder, his gang's most popular tavern. It is not a massive building, but it's many levels make up in height what it misses in girth, each floor catering to the various needs of the establishment's many customers.

Fools, each and every one of them.

Smiling, he looks at his watch to find twilight already just an hour away.

Time to get to work.

Studying the faraway road leading up the distant tunnel exit, Kaxim rallies his power, the air around him beginning to curl and warp around him as though he is the center if the world. Shadows teem in the folds of the wind, curling and twisting around him as he envisions himself standing at the entrance to the cavern, the massive mouth of the tunnel yawning before him.

His power has no name and no one he knows of has ever been able to explain it or recall another who shared it. It is a strange, beautiful gift - the only one the gods bothered to grant him. Like an expert tailor, Kaxim grasps at the fabric that makes up their world, folding and weaving reality. Then, with a single step through that fold, Kaxim finds himself on the other side, the shadows gone as though they'd never been.

The rush he feels from using his magic pounds through his blood, even though he knows how stupid it is that he risked so long a jump at once. Promising himself to be a little more careful, Kaxim makes his way into the city.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He is no longer in Underworld, the laughter and mirth now utterly gone from view or hearing in this quaint, residential neighborhood. Of course, this is to be expected, as this district is nearly on the other end of the canyon.

The street, Elmwood Road, is home to about a dozen of the capital's middle-class elites. Bankers, investors, and a few successful business owners reside in the well-kept, lovely houses that line the street on both sides. All of them are moderately wealthy, high respected members of society, and Kaxim has dirt enough to ruin each and every one.

None more so, however, than Jonathan Mackey, one of the most successful investors in the city. It had been quite a surprise even to the thief himself to discover the male's little secret several decades ago, but any shock had quickly melted away once Kaxim had approached him with the information. Now, the male is one of The Crows' biggest investors, and remains so terrified of Kax that he has become a willing thread in The Shade's web of contacts.

Soundlessly, Kaxim makes his way across Mackey's roof to the large, unlocked window that leads into the male's private study. The lights are on inside, reflecting on the pale-painted walls of his neighbor's home. Kax shifts over to the other roof, the gap a foot too wide for him to jump, and turns to study the room.

Door closed, lights on, and they'll be alone, as instructed.

Good.

It takes only a breath for Kaxim to find himself standing, utterly relaxed, in the center of the fire-lit room, eyes utterly devoid of warmth as he meets the male's frightened, blue gaze.

"Hello, Jonathan. I trust you have what I requested?"

Mackey quakes, but nods, too afraid of the male nearly two heads shorter to so much as speak. It amuses Kaxim immensely.

"I don't like to be kept waiting, Mackey," he deadpans, his gaze never shifting from the male before him.

Jonathan Mackey is not a handsome male, at least not by Kaxim's admittedly high standards. He is the sort of bald that has people wondering if he'd ever even had hair at all, or if it had simply disappeared one nightand never returned. His nose is too big for his face, and his eyes too small. Also, he is one of those people who doesn't seem to care that, in order to fly, one's body must be cared for and regularly used. His skin is pale, his face red and constantly beading with sweat, and so Kaxim is forced to watch as he dabs at his ridiculous cerulean mustache over and over.

"Of c-course," the male stutters as he rushes around the desk, his sweaty fingers clutching an envelope, which Kaxim swiftly snatches away.

Fine, pure parchment, no return address, and a burgundy seal he's never seen before- the image that of a highly embellished "M".

"Thank you, Jonathan," Kaxim murmurs without looking away from the letter. "That will be all."

A sigh of nervous relief is all that greets his ears before he vanishes into shadows once more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We have a situation," he says, not bothering to announce his arrival as he appears, covered in dirt and slick with sweat, inside Faye's office.

The female does not start or even deign to acknowledge him from where she sits at a large, simple desk, the dark wooden surface organized to aggravating perfection. Her eyes do not so much as blink, too busy scanning the document she is holding in her pale, scarred hands.

He glares at her, his temper rising as he fights the urge to snatch the paper away and _make_ her listen. She needs to hear this.

"Faye, this is serious," he growls, waving the unsealed envelope in the air, as if that might catch her attention.

A moment passed of agonizing silence, broken only by his labored breathing. He is exhausted from all the magic it took to get home so quickly. He's used too much too fast, the distances he jumped not beyond his limits, but enough that the power usually pounding through his blood feels like a thin, feeble trickle in his veins.

There is also the matter of his little run in with some of Black Dog's brutes, the three males having left him with what feels like a bruised rib and badly damaged pride.

He needs rest, and possibly a healer.

At last, Faye's eyes lift to meet his over the paper, and he frowns at the total lack of warmth he find there. If she notices his wounded state, she says nothing.

He thought of his conversation with Z the other day, the pain he'd seen in his friend's eyes.

"Well?" She demands.

He throws the letter down on the desk, not trusting himself to speak without screaming at the female. Now is not the time to get into it with her.

With a small, annoyed sound, she sets aside the document she's been studying and picks up the envelope.   
Kaxim watches her note the seal, the expensive quality of the parchment, before removing the letter within.

He already knows what she'll see written on the pale paper, the words written in elegant, precise script.

_Greetings,_  
_It is with a troubled heart and mind that I write this letter, for I know well the cost of the deed I seek to have committed. It is a deed I do not seek for personal_ _benefit_ _or for any_ _sort_ _of greed, revenge, or malicious desire. I am simply a_ _servant_ _of this land, who has seen the_ _destruction_ _and ruin this Kingdom is fast approaching. I am_ _certain_ _that_ _such matters do not move_ _or_ _concern individuals such as yourselves, as you and your organization are not of the sort who_ _deem_ _such things worthy of attention. Make no mistake however, I have every intention of rewarding each of you handsomely for your services. However, the details of this_ _request_ _are_ _not_ _the sort I feel comfortable putting down in writing, and so I must ask that -should_ _you_ _find my offer worthy of your time-_ _I_ _receive_ _a response containing the location and hour you would find most_ _suitable_ _to meet in private at the soonest opportunity. You have my word_ _that_ _I shall comply with_ _any_ _and all requests, and as a sign of my good will, I have enclosed a humble sum as a_ _forward_ _payment for your time._  
_I shall await your response._  
                                                  _M._

Faye swears softly as her eyes move from the letter to the stack of bills Kax is holding. In his hand is a small fortune.

"Tell me everything you've found out," the female demands, the letter still clutched in her hands as she rises  from her seat and moves to take the money.

He does not fight her as she takes it, knowing that her greed is not so much that she might consider stealing it. Despite her charming personality, Faye is loyal to a fault and would never betray the gang.

"Very little. That seal is completely off the books- I checked with Selena before coming here. The handwriting seems oddly familiar, but it isn't exactly unique so I want to have one of my guys take a look at it. The cash, of course, is genuine- a fool could see that- but this entire thing has me on edge."

She knows why, has heard the stories just like everyone else.

"All of the people who vanished went missing right after receiving anonymous job offers," she states, her frown deepening.

He nods, running his fingers through his hair as he often does when anxious.

Before him, Faye snarls softly as she paces, eyes scanning the letter again as though to pry away its secrets. Kaxim sighs, knowing his next words will not be appreciated.

"We need to tell Zyphyr, his people know a hell of a lot more about this than we do. I know enough to cause a bit of trouble in a bar, but Z's the one who's been getting his hands dirty in all these scuffles. He'll have a better idea of what we should do, if this is just a coincidence or not."

Faye stops pacing.

"No, not yet. I want an opportunity to look this over before he has the chance to shut this down. I figured you of all people would want this more than anyone, considering-"

"Don't mistake my hesitation for anything besides what it is - caution. I am well aware of my situation, Faye, so shut the hell up about my business. If you're right and this is genuine, I can personally assure you I'll be the first guy in line to have the job, but until we know for certain we need to take things slow. I don't know why you're so keen to leave out Zyphyr when he can get us the information we need," Kaxim interjects, doing his best not to show how much her mention of his "situation" has gotten to him. He hates talking about it.

What makes it worse, however, is the fact that she is right and knows it. He'd nearly fallen off a roof at the sight of all that money. It had taken every ounce of his loyalty, his decency, not to take it and run. He'd almost done it, had come far too close to betraying everything he's worked so hard to build here.

But he hadn't.

Faye hisses, fury twisting her beautiful features even as defeat lingers in her eyes. He knows he's won the argument when she pivots and slams the objects down on the desk, the whole room seeming to shake with the action.

"Fine," she growls, still glaring. "But you have to deal with this. I'm going out."

It's an effort not to roll his eyes. He isn't surprised in the least.

"Whatever, Faye," he sighs, already turning to the doorway. He is tired, both physically and of this conversation.

"Screw you, Kaxim," comes the female's gruff response.

He throws her a filthy, suggestive gesture over his shoulder, and doesn't even bother to hold in his chuckle when she throws a paperweight at him.

He doesn't need to shift to miss it, and part of him wonders if, perhaps, it is because, somewhere beyond all her glaring and swearing, the female had noticed how worn down he is and did not want to hurt him after all.  
  



	5. Cal

The pale, flowing fabric of his robes moves like water around him as he roams the Floor, his gaze lazily taking note of anyone who wanders in or stumbles out. All around him are Daemons of every sex, color, and temper, each accompanied by one of his employees, bodies entangled atop lounges or draped across knees as customers gamble and drink. Each face is familiar, expected, be they patrons or newcomers.

He knows everyone in this city - even those who do not know him. It is how he's lasted so long, how he and his sister have survived these decades in Kingshelm.

"Hello, brother," a voice murmurs from behind him, her accent as lovely and familiar as the sea as she speaks in his own tongue.

_Their_ tongue.

He turns, smiling a bit, to face his twin, identical eyes meeting in the dim, atmospheric lighting of The Scarlet Rose - the only real physical  feature they share.

Brilliant ocean-blue, edged in sea foam and bright as stars.

"I was beginning to think you'd vanished," he replies, relishing the use of his mother language as he moves closer to where she stands draped in deepest violet, the gown little more than smoke and fabric in places. Gold glints at her wrist, her ears, her slender waist, the metal so at home against her warm-toned skin that it seems nearly a part of her.

Rhodanthe grins, her beauty shining like a flame in this shadowed den of vice and broken virtue.

A queen among beggars.

"How go things here?" She asks, eyes scanning the hall with a casual, possessive assurance.

His gaze follows, their movements ever an echo of each other, despite their vastly different souls.

"Well enough," he answers calmly. "Nothing out of the ordinary; Darin caused a bit of trouble, so I took care of it. I doubt he'll be back for some time..."

Rhodanthe's grin grows into an amused smirk, her eyes alight with the same mischief that colors his words.

"He had a swim, then," she observes, eyeing the nearest bathing pool. It is only one of the ten built in the shadows of the building, heated by magic aided by the hot springs deep beneath the caverns.

He smiles in affirmation, his power still very much awake after the little display he'd given the customers only a few hours earlier. It's always fun when he gets the chance to remind them that those pools are not only meant for their enjoyment.

Rhodanthe begins speaking again, but is drowned out by a sudden, deafening silence that sweeps through the entire room.

He knows instantly who must have caused it - The Raven.

As one, the siblings turn towards the entrance, expressions shifting from amusement to unreadable stone in moments. They are both far too aware of the power the female wields, have witnessed the devastating effect it has more than once.

Cal schools his features into bemused, unreadable calm as he delves into his power, readies it.

Just in case.

Where mere seconds before there had been laughter and mirth, only breathless silence remains in the pleasure hall. Not a single person dares to move, to speak, as the beautiful, wraith-like assassin saunters into The Rose as if she owns it.

In a way, she does.

It is an effort for Cal to keep from curling his hands into fists, to steady his breathing and calm his raging heartbeats. Beside him, he knows Rhodanthe is busy doing the same.

"Please, don't feel as though the fun need stop on my account," the daemon purrs, her strange, untraceable accent smooth as sea-glass and lovely as a viper.

With a wave of a pale, callused hand, Faye gives his patrons a silent command to resume their amusement. None dare disobey, and the sounds of reluctant debauchery begin at once to fill the uneasy silence.

With the air of a queen taking court, The Raven makes her way over to the Cal and his sister, blue eyes glinting in the dim light. The siblings share a brief, assessing glance towards one another, their eyes conveying what they dare not speak.

_She's_ _in a foul mood tonight..._

_Be careful..._

When only a few steps separate them, Faye stops, her pale gaze raking over them like icy claws. She, without a doubt, noticed that glance- marked it as she marks all things- because she is no longer attempting to hide the glint of fire in her eyes.

Her legendary temper.

He pities the poor fool who's caused it. It would not surprise him in the least if she'd killed them for whatever they'd done to anger her so. At the thought, he feels a twinge of pity; whoever it was could not have deserved it.

His lesser senses hadn't smelled the death on her until only a moment ago, when she'd paused only steps away. Now, he can scent the victim's blood laced along with the female's scent, though it seems aged with time. A day, maybe two.

Ice and steel and silk, though the latter might simply be from the crimson gown she wears, the fabric clinging to every curve of her powerful body.

"So you _can_ smell death after all," Faye remarks, sounding only somewhat interested. She'd no doubt seen his nostrils flare, his eyes widen. "I've always wondered at how weak your senses seem. You never appear to smell or hear anything until it's right behind you."

Cal does not let the insult show on his face, knowing that to react would be to allow Faye exactly what she wants. Still, his people are proud, his land a distant jewel in his memory, and it is an effort not to break the bitch's neck.

"Our kind are much different to the Daemon people, and hail from a land where acute senses such as yours are not needed, as few dangers exist for those who do not linger too long in unsavory places," Rhodanthe replies in Daelic, her voice an anchor and a warning.

Faye does not bother to reply, her interest apparently exhausted as her gaze shifts to scan the room like a predator searching for prey.

"How may we serve you tonight?" Rhodanthe inquires, her tone utterly polite, her face a serene, perfect smile. She has always been much better with this sort of thing than him, and he thanks the gods for it.

Even if here, in this wretched country, his gods cannot hear him, cannot aid him. Not that many of them had ever seemed inclined to do so when he and his sister had been back home. It did not surprise him, however. Not with their...history.

"I want Vira in my usual room in no longer than ten minutes," orders the assassin, already beginning to stride away from them towards the grand staircase that leads up to floor after floor of rooms.

Her suite is on the top floor, and used so often by the female that they'd taken the liberty of having her personal seal etched into the wood among the whorls of decorative carving that mark the doors of their finest chambers.

He does not see or hear his sister stop a passing worker to pass along the request, his thoughts occupied with other things as it usually is. He had not been built for this place, this life, and it drains him to be around so many people. Despite decades in this festering city, he still wakes every dusk in a daze, his gaze seeking out the sun.

He wants to go home.

Home...

He isn't entirely sure what the word means anymore, not since the night they'd been dumped along the shores of this foul place. The image of their land flashes through his mind, the memory faded enough at the edges that he fights a rush of panic.

This is his home now, at least until he can convince Rhodanthe to leave. The two of them have unfinished business here, and neither are even certain that they have a home to return _to_ after all these decades. Still, the desire to be among his own kind is a constant, burning ache in his chest. 

 

But they are professionals, and he mustn't let the customers see anything but what they expect to see, so Cal plasters a smile onto his face and wills ire to fill his eyes. 

 

Rhodanthe, apparently finished with her task, turns to say something, but pauses immediately upon seeing his face. No mask he can conjure has ever worked on his twin. 

 

"Go back to the house and sleep," she murmurs in their tongue, the words gentle and so soft he barely hears them over the noise of the room. 

 

He takes a step closer, arm outstretched, as he gives his sister a small, grateful smile. 

 

She clasps his arm with her own, the warmth of her palm against his forearm better than any embrace.  

 

"Thank you," he replies, wishing he could say more, do more. 

 

Rhodanthe only smiles a bit and motions with a jab of her chin towards the open entrance for him to leave. 

 

"Don't get mugged," is all she says.

 


	6. Vira

The door barely makes a sound as it closes behind her, no doubt the product of well oiled hinges. It is that soft, unbearable "click" that sends shivers down her spine every time she enters a client's chamber.

Faye's is no different, despite their... complexity.

Her eyes immediately latch onto the massive, luxurious bed that dominates the space. There, clad in cobwebs atop the thick, ebony duvet, lies the Wingless Raven.

Faye's eyes meet her gaze, the frozen blue lit from within in a way Vira can't even begin to understand.   
She knows better than to ask.

She isn't being paid to ask questions.

"Come here."

It takes no effort to lower her lashes, to curl her lips into a lust-addled smile that has most of her clients begging in moments. She takes her time moving to the bed, where the assassin watches with a predator's gaze. She knows what Faye sees: the shear, golden fabric of her gown, the sway of her hips, the way her full, peaked breasts move with every step she makes towards that bed.

There is a very, very good reason why she is the most desired female in The Rose. Why only select clients can even request her.

It is not her beauty, but that certainly helps.

She's the best of the best, and Faye knows it better than anyone.

The feeling of silk beneath her touch is as familiar as breathing, but she finds herself savoring the texture of the fabric as she perches herself on the end of the mattress.

The other female's eyes are like pits of silver flame as she sits up, her movements slow and precise.

"Come here," she repeats, the words a low, sensual growl.

Vira barely starts to move again when the other Daemon lunges for her and practically drags her onto her lap, one arm moving to wrap around her waist as the other finds the soft, exposed skin of her thigh.

Faye isn't a patient individual.

Vira supposes it is a good thing that she isn't either.

The Raven's lips crash into her's with a wild, brutal urgency that sends fire into her blood. The kiss is vicious and untamed, teeth and tongue meeting again and again until both of them are panting for breath between every clash of lips.

Unable to resist, V wraps a hand around Faye's waist, her other moving to bury itself in the female's long, silver hair. It never fails to shock her how soft and silken it feels, how deceptively thick it is.

"Shall I?" Vira groans into the other Daemon's lips, her power roiling with her lust, ready for release.

The Raven's answering smile is nothing short of feral, the hunger in her eyes enough to devour V entirely.

Her hands are steady as she slides one to palm one of her client's breasts, the other gliding lower and lower until Faye let's out what could only be described as a purr. At the sound, Vira captures the other girl's mouth once again. Beneath her skin, Vira's magic surges to her fingertips, the power flowing over Faye's pale skin in veins of deepest gold, teasing her with little waves of pleasure.

"Stop playing," the assassin groans, her back arching ever so slightly in protest to her teasing touches, the way her power glides over her nerves, her skin.

With a soft, lover's chuckle, Vira complies, her magic surging through her fingertips and into the female's nerves, ordering her body to obey, to _feel_ as she wills it. Chemicals and hormones flow through Faye's body, awakening every piece of her, the pleasure surging and surging with every movement she makes inside of her, every touch of her fingers.

Until, at last, Faye reaches her peak, her entire body arching with the climax, and she roars.

As the pleasure fades, Vira decides to do something unbearably stupid.

Just because she can.

She brings that hand up, holding Faye's gaze all the while, and licks the remnants off of her fingers, the taste enough that she nearly finds her own pleasure.

Faye's eyes are wide, her pupils wide with lust, as she watches Vira savor the taste of her.

She doesn't watch for long.

The moment she lowers her hand, Faye pounces, pinning the prostitute to the bed, her mouth finding V's throat. At the touch of those red-painted lips, the brush of straight, sharp teeth across the flesh of her neck, Vira moans.

She rarely, so rarely, allows her clients to Drink from her. It's one of the perks of being in such high demand - she gets to set limits. No one so much as touches her without her consent- a right few others in her business can claim - but with Faye...

"Let me have you, Vira." No demand, no threat, in her voice. Nothing but _need_ , the sort that all Daemons experience in these situations.

She's said yes to clients before, never entirely knowing why, but only a handful of times. The act of Drinking isn't something anyone took lightly, not even those in her profession. Drinking is something done between lovers, between mates or married pairs. A piece of your soul belongs to those who Drink from you, and it is not a bond forged carelessly.

Perhaps she is a fool for it, but Vira is not afraid of The White Raven, not anymore. Not since she glimpsed the barest of glances of the other female's infamous scars, always covered by silk, chiffon, or the hair that hung nearly to Faye's waist. Not since she'd first tasted the female's pleasure. Even now, in this moment, the assassin wears just enough to conceal her back, her wrists - the scars no one has ever fully seen.

Again, Faye runs her canines over the dark flesh of the prostitute's throat, the skin so sensitive that she moans yet again.

"Fuck," she gaspes, not caring that her flimsy, lace undergarments are utterly, undeniably soaked through.

"Answer me," Faye hisses, her voice not entirely of this world as she slowly, hungrily, begins to suck and nip at her throat.

That is all it takes for her to come undone.

She is barely finished saying yes when the other Daemon's teeth rip into her throat and wave after wave of pleasure shoots through her veins.

The pain of the bite is nothing, utterly insignificant in the wake of her growing climax, the pleasure better than any sex. Her body goes utterly limp in Faye's iron embrace, one of the assassin's hands moving to clutch at Vira's throat, desperate for an anchor to keep her from losing herself. Her other hand is busy doing other things.

It takes only a few, exquisite moments for them to find their climax, the pleasure so intense that their collective moans seem to shake the very building.

The moment the pleasure begins to wane, Faye removes her teeth from Vira's throat, her tongue sweeping over the wound, which begins to close in response.

She barely even notices the pain of the healing, the lingering echoes of their climax enveloping her senses with the last waves of pleasure.

When at last she opens her eyes, Vira found herself marveling at the sight before her.

It never fails to shock her at how devastatingly beautiful Faye is when her features are allowed to relax, to become something other than her usual, unreadable mask of stone and ice.

Her eyes closed, Faye can't see that the prostitute is watching her, and so V allows herself to study The Raven, whose mouth and chin are covered in her blood.

The sight sends her heart pounding.

Where normally there resides a smirk or a hard, cruel line, there is only a small frown, Faye's full lips parted to reveal the barest glimpse of shockingly white teeth. The harsh, angular lines of her face seem gentler, younger, and Vira finds herself wondering if, once, this cold, calculating individual had once known what it feels like to laugh or smile.

"Stop staring at me." Faye opens her eyes, expression at once becoming cold and hard again.

Fighting down the hurt the words bring, Vira forces her own features into calm, professional stone and asks, "Do you require anything else of me tonight?"

"No," replies The Raven, who does not seem to care about the blood smeared across her face. "You may go."

It takes all of her willpower not to reach out a hand and wipe it off, to ask if it meant anything to Faye that she desired Vira's blood enough to practically beg for it. That she had let her taste her like a lover.

Instead, she simply bows her head respectfully before sliding off the bed. It takes only seconds for her to reach the door, and yet it somehow feels far longer, far more final. As her hand wraps around the ornate silver handle to the door, Vira finds herself pausing, waiting for Faye to say _something_ _._

Nothing.

_Fine..._

The door swings open on silent hinges, and Vira has to fight the urge to slam it shut as she walks out of the room, her eyes burning for reasons she cannot name.


	7. Zyphyr

"We need to talk," his friend murmurs, voice carefully soft as the thief appears at Zyphyr's side.

It is dawn, and his body is aching and sore from yet another brawl. He hasn't slept in almost two days, his thoughts too occupied with everything that has been going on, as well as the Faye situation.

However, a single glance at Kaxim's face has Zyphyr pushing his exhaustion aside. This must be serious.

"What's wrong, Kax?" He opens the door to his room, his movements calm even as his heart races.

Kaxim says nothing as he enters behind him and closes the door, locking it for good measure. When at last the shorter male turns to face him, his expression has morphed into something bordering on desperation.

But there is also fear.

"What's going on, brother? Did something happen," he asks, heart aching at the sight of such open fear on his best friend's face. They may not be good males, may have done terrible, unspeakable things, but in the end they're still mortal.

They still _feel_.

Kax lets out a shaky, weak breath, and the sound of it has him fighting the urge to reach out a hand to steady the male.

"I have a year to pay my debt before Connolly sends his people to gut me," he murmurs, fifty years of fear poisoning the words. He is visibly shaking, a sight that Zyphyr has never seen and never expected to witness from The Shade.

But the male before him is not The Shade, just a young male fearful for his life.

A mortal with no wings to escape the death awaiting him.

He lets out a curse, filthy and crude enough that Kaxim's eyes widen at the sound of it.

"I'll kill him," Zyphyr growls. "I'll gut him and all his men before I let him touch you."

His friend huffs out a humorless laugh, eyes empty of hope, of their characteristic fire. "As capable as you are, my friend, not even you can take on the Black Dog. He's too strong, and his people too loyal. We've only got one option."

Zyphyr crosses his arms, his power roiling in his veins at the unwelcome truth, as he replies.

"What option would that be?"

Kaxim tells him, each word filling Zyphyr with more dread than the last. The letter, the beating, his conversation with Faye. It's all he can do to keep from screaming.

"No." He levels his gaze, hard and unflinching, on Kaxim. "It's too risky, you could get yourself killed or worse."

Kaxim frowns, his hands forming fists at his sides as he levels a glare towards his friend.

"I didn't realize this was your decision to make, Zyphyr. Look, I get that it's dangerous, but what other choice so I have?!"

The taller male only sighs, a hand rising to run through his mess of rusty curls.

"We wait for another job, one where we hold the cards. I can talk to some of my old contacts with the Red Harrem - see if they have any high-pay marks I can take. We'll get the money, Kax."

Kaxim only huffs out a humorless, broken laugh, the sound jarring enough that the assassin nearly flinches.

"You don't know that for certain, Z. I can't just turn away an opportunity like this, not when it could mean my life," the thief replies, eyes shadowed with emotion.

Something in his chest hardens at that, at the words that seem so at odds with Kaxim's recent behavior.

"Oh, really? Since when did you start caring about whether you lived or died, Kax? The Gods only know how many times I've have to force you out of a fight you started just to lose, or how about the time when I found you drunk off your ass and half dead in a ditch last winter?! Face it, you bastard, it's been a long time since you gave a shit!"

The room is dead silent, both males too shocked by what he'd said to even breath for several moments. The words had come unbidden, unwelcome, the truth of them too much in this moment for either of them.

Kax says nothing, his body shaking with what could either be rage or sorrow. His eyes are closed, his fists clenched, as he collapses loudly into a chair by the window, his head in his hands.

Zyphyr's mouth opens, then closes.

What could he possibly say to apologize?

"You're right," Kaxim whispers, the tenor of his voice shaking and full of emotion.

"Kax...I'm So sor-"

"Don't." Kaxim interjects, still refusing to look at him. "Everything you said is the truth, has been for a long time now. I stopped caring, stopped trying to be anything but what I am..."

Zyphyr swallows, unsure of what to say. He's never been good at this sort of thing. Never had the chance to _become_ good at it.

"And what is that?" He asks, the question all he can think to say.

Finally, the younger male lifts his head to meet Zyphyr's gaze, his expression utterly open in its despair as he answers.

"A monster with nothing to lose."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun will have risen above the horizon by the time Kaxim left the male to his rest, but Zyphyr has never felt more awake in his life, his mind occupied completely with all that has transpired in so short a time. Where in the world had yesternight gone?

He hates it, the restless, raging energy that fills his blood and bones. He knows what he is, that - in the end - he is just as much a monster as Kax.

Worse. 

At least Kaxim has a reason for being the way he is, for having become a dark tale told to naughty children here in the capitol. Zyphyr can claim no such excuse, his actions nothing more than the products of choices he'd made long ago. Sure, he'd had his reasons - the rage and grief that had set everything off - but in the end that only made him worse. Kaxim's crimes had been born of that same fury, that same pain, but he had turned himself in, had felt regret and remorse. 

Even now, so many years later, Z would be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed every minute of it.

  _Better to be a monster with no regrets than a victim with no_ _mourners_.

Frowning, Z turns to survey his room, which he hasn't entered in days.

The modest quarters are illuminated only by a small, nearly depleted candle on the small table beside his unmade bed. His sheets are in need of cleaning after weeks of neglect, but the detail once again seems too insignificant for him to actually do anything about it. One of the whelps will notice it eventually while cleaning and take care of the chore. 

He is so tired, the exhaustion he has been fighting seeming now to drive into his very bones as he tosses himself - fully clothed - onto the bed. The thoughts still race through his head, worries and plans and schemes. 

_Tomorrow...I'll handle it tomorrow._   
  



	8. Talon

"So, let me get this straight," the tall male says, grey eyes wide. "You want us to take a job from some unknown mystery client that will almost certainly end up being a trap?"

Faye only sighs, the sound somehow managing to convey fifty years of exasperation in a single moment. 

As if _he_ is the idiot in this scenario. 

"We've taken shadier jobs before and come out just fine, Talon. I don't see how this is any different." The female leans casually back against the counter, clearly unafraid of being overheard, as most of the others were out working or remained asleep in the upstairs rooms. 

Why can't he ever just have a calm, peaceful breakfast without some busybody interrupting him at such early hours?

"The _difference_?" He frowns, eyes flicking back down to his meal. "How about the fact that the last people to receive these types of offers have all vanished and are likely _dead_?"

No reaction, not even a blink of those unnerving blue eyes. 

Damn this crazy bitch...

"So," Talon sighs and takes a bite of his food, realizing that there's no way for him to win this argument, especially when it seems that Kaxim - and therefore Zyphyr - will likely agree with her as well. "What's the plan? How are we supposed to get this guy out in the open where we can ensure he won't just ambush us?"

Faye's answering smile is nothing short of wicked, her pale eyes glinting with mischievous fire. 

He looks away with a shake of his head.

"By having our little meeting right in the open, in full view of every self-righteous prick in this gods-forsaken city."

Talon's eyes shoot up from his plate, wide and disbelieving. 

"Tell me you're joking? Please, for the love of every dark god, tell me that you're not about to say what I think you are?"

"Do you still own that suit you wore the Lord of Scottsdale's wedding?" Is all she says, a vicious little grin on her face. 

_We're going to die_. 

"You want to have this meeting, a meeting to plan what sounds an awful lot like it's going to be a high-profile assassination, at _The King's Ball_?!"

She merely nods, her face utterly calm, as though discussing the weather. 

"You're going to get us all killed, you crazy bitch." He sighs, standing up from his seat at the small glass table where his breakfast remains unfinished. 

A silent surrender. 

"Not a chance," she replies, a hint of laughter in her voice. "A male with as many enemies as you can get himself killed without any help from me."

The joke is so unexpected that he laughs, despite himself. Besides, it's not like he can deny the fact that what she's said is true. 

"You've got me there," he concedes with a chuckle, gesturing with an outstretched arm for her to lead the way out of the kitchen. 

Maybe they'd all end up dead, or maybe this could be the opportunity they'd been waiting for - a chance to cement their place at the top of Underworld's unspoken hierarchy.  

He hopes it is the latter, prays for it. 

Even though he knows the gods will never care enough to listen. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Talon often catches himself wondering what life would be like if he wasn't a male whose bounty amounts to a small fortune, usually at odd moments such as this. 

They are all cramped together in Faye's office, each of them in various stages of undress and exhaustion, awaiting the female's grand reveal of whatever life-threatening plan she's been concocting in that depraved mind of her's. Zyphyr and Kaxim are sitting together on the small sofa pushed up against the far wall, their expressions serious and, in Zyphyr's case, guarded as they watch Faye pace behind her desk. Unwilling to brave the notoriously uncomfortable chairs in front of the worn wooden table, Talon makes do with the window sill, watching as the room fills with uncomfortable silence.

A room of murderers, thieves, orphans, and - of course - the world's finest gambler. 

The four most-wanted criminals this side of The Wall.

It's utterly preposterous, so much so that Talon lets loose a chuckle that seems deafening in the tense silence. 

Only Kaxim seems to notices, his ruby pupils flashing to where the dark-skinned Daemon sits smiling at what - to him - must seem to be absolutely nothing. 

His smile widens. 

"As much as I adore our little family meetings, darling Faye," Talon purrs, grey eyes studying the older Daemon. "I must ask that someone start talking before I die from sheer boredom. You all know how much I loath needless silence."

Faye stops pacing, eyes glaring at everything and nothing. 

Zyphyr and The Shade remain silent, much to Talon's disappointment. 

_Fine, so it is to be one of these meetings then_ , he thinks with distaste.

"Come now, Kax, surely you agree with me? After all, you stand to gain the most if this-"

"Shut up Talon." Kaxim interrupts, eyes never leaving Faye.

"Hmph." The Gambler turns to study the streets below, which seem naked and barren during the early hours of night. Above, the city is only just beginning to wake, while here in Underworld things are only just beginning to calm.

Behind him, the room is unnervingly silent, and he is tempted to hurl himself from the gods-damned window if it will make someone _do_ something. 

"What's the plan, Faye?" It is Zyphyr, unexpectedly, who finally breaks the silence. 

Talon smiles, watching the others' reflections through the glass. They remind him of a hand of cards, all grouped together with nowhere to go. 

_But who is holding this deck?_

The thought is gone before it even finishes existing, forgotten in a moment like most of his brain's inane mutterings as he studies his own expression shift in the glass. His ebony features shift into a small, satisfied smile as things finally start getting interesting.

"So you've decided, then?" she says with a soft smirk. "Good."

Zyphyr only rolls his eyes. 

"How are we going to get into the palace for The Ball? That place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse." Talon wonders aloud, still watching everything through the window. 

Kaxim's eyes flash to the male in the window, then to Faye. "Explain."

The female shoots a vicious glance Talon's way.

He only smiles knowingly. 

_You're welcome_. 

"As Talon so _helpfully_ mentioned," she begins, words edged with aggravation. "We're going to stage this meeting with "M" at The King's Ball, where we can ensure that he doesn't try anything. I know of several possible nobles we can target to obtain invitations, and we can contact that servant Kaxim has under thumb to get anyone else in."

Zyphyr frowns thoughtfully, and Talon can almost _feel_ his mental gears turning as he works through every possible catastrophe - of which there are many. 

"What makes you think this guy will agree to meet in such a public location? That castle will be packed with soldiers and spies," the red-head asks, eyes troubled. 

Faye holds up the letter, pointing with a long, sharpened nail at the elegant script written in neat, concise lines. 

"Whoever sent this has more money than he knows what to do with, or is working with enough people that money is no object. Anyone with pockets that deep should have no trouble getting into The Ball. It's likely that he's already planning to attend anyway. If we're right and he's looking to have us kill someone prominent, then whoever his target is will almost certainly be there, which only gives him more of a reason to go. People like that can never resist savoring an enemy who has no idea they're about to die."

Zyphyr nods, frown softening as he mentally works through the plan, searching for faults and building off of what Faye had given him. 

"How do we get out once the meeting's done?" Kaxim asks, leaning forward in his seat with that casual grace of his. 

"The same way we get in, I suppose. Zyphyr and I will go as guests, while you and Talon pose as servants and keep watch. You both will enter and leave through the servants' entrance, and all four of us will meet up at Kax's apartment afterward."

"Why not come back to The Nest?" Talon asks, watching as a group of prostitutes exit The Rose a block over and make their way south towards the Crime Ward's residential streets. 

Faye pinches her forehead, shaking her head in exasperation as she often does whenever anyone asks a question she views as idiotic. 

He is, more often than not, that person. 

"Because," she replies through clenched teeth. "Anyone who recognizes us in the crowd will immediately expect us to come back here. Besides, I don't want to have to worry about the others overhearing anything, especially Sean."

Indeed, if that asshole learns they are hiding a job this big from the others, there'll be chaos in the gang. They can't let that happen, not with the disappearances riling everyone up.

Talon nods, even though no one is paying enough attention to him to notice. 

"I'll head to the palace to work out the details with Payne," Kax declares, naming who Talon assumes must be the servant Faye mentioned. 

Faye nods absently, her eyes already clouded with schemes. She doesn't even seem to notice when the thief murmurs a brief parting to Zyphyr and Talon before vanishing into shadow. For a moment, he can only stare at the female, at how her beautiful face always seems so tense. 

So empty. 

_I need a drink..._

The gambler doesn't bother to announce his departure, aware that neither of his companions would care, as he strides out of the office in search of alcohol. 

In search of _something_. 


	9. Evelyn

Evelyn hates everything about the palace, from the tittering nobility constantly roaming the ornate halls, to the ridiculous and utterly useless decorations filling ever chamber. She despises the needless display of wealth, the way the king never seems to even notice that, while he eats off plates of solid gold, his people remain starving in streets not five minutes flight away.

It disgusts her.

_He_ disgusts her.

No one knows this, of course. No one can ever discover how she truly feels about this place, her sovereign, not if she is to keep her position as Head Servant. It took nearly a century to obtain the job, and she's definitely not about to risk losing it now by flapping her gums.

Even her thoughts aren't safe. Only a fool would underestimate anyone in these halls, especially the nobility. As bumbling as some of them may be, Evelyn must never allow herself to forget that any one of them could kill her without so much as blinking.

She might be Daemon, but even her pure-blood status is not always enough to earn her immunity with some of the more sadistic members of the court, especially Prince Lorcán and his band of sycophants.

The Dagda save them all if that monster ever becomes king.

With a steadying breath, Evelyn makes her way through the maze of halls that form the servants' passages. She holds a tray of uneaten tarts that Lady Gráinne had ordered and immediately discarded.

_Wasteful, petty little skank_.

"Such vulgar words from a lady," purrs a soft, sensuous voice.

Evelyn groans, all too aware of who it must be.

"What do you want, Duana? I'm busy." The servant turns to face the other female, who - as is her custom - seems to have simply appeared from nowhere.

It has already been a year since she showed up in Kingshelm, and yet Evelyn still finds herself shocked every time she sees Duana's face.

She is hauntingly beautiful.

Thick, auburn hair hangs in tight, natural curls to the young female's full breasts, which are almost always on some sort of display in her array of luxurious, and rather scandalous, gowns. The girl's face is frighteningly symmetrical, and made up of soft, lovely curves. She has perfectly shaped lips and brows, and a pretty, delicate looking nose. Her eyes are large, almost like a doll's, and a shade of green that seems to change every time one looks too close.

Duana smiles, revealing bone-white teeth and unnervingly sharp canines.

The mark of a pureblood Noble, despite the well-known fact that Duana Reid has no known blood relations within the capitol.

"Am I not allowed to simply come and visit with my friend? It is so _boring_ in this city, and you always have to most intriguing stories to share," she replies, cream-colored hands smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in the skirts of her burgundy gown.

Evelyn tsks, unmoved.

"Not when I'm working, Duana. How many times have I told you that guests are not allowed in the servants' passages? If you wanted to meet with me, you should have simply sent a request to have me come to your rooms," she chides, eyes dancing between the female and the tray in her hands.

She needs to get back to work. Now.

"What makes you think his majesty knows I'm here? That old male doesn't know a mouse from a Banshee." Duana chuckles darkly, eyes bright with mischief.

Evelyn doesn't even know what to say to that, so she merely turns on her heel and continues on her way to the kitchens. If the girl wants to get herself thrown in prison for her stupidity, that's on her and certainly not Evelyn's problem.

_Children_.

"I'll see you later then," is all Duana says, as calm as a summer breeze.

She does not look back, even though she can feel the weight of those green eyes on her all the way to the kitchens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She ends up being late, Serana having already finished the dishes when she arrives to the kitchens. Aggravated, both at the lazy bitch who'd ordered the wasted food and at Duana for interrupting her, Evelyn mutters angrily to herself as she wraps the uneaten pastries in a cloth napkin for the children to enjoy later.

The king certainly wouldn't notice their absence.

The dishes seem to mock her as she grabs the sponge and begins furiously scrubbing them.

Around her, the room is a flurry of activity as cooks and maids bustle about anxiously, all of them working hurriedly to prepare the feast for tomorrow's big event.

The King's Ball - another utter waste of food and wealth.

Another insult thrown in the faces of every struggling citizen, another crime for which the crown should pay.

The thought sends her blood boiling, so much so that the pretty porcelain teacup in her hands shatters, cutting into her palm and sending rivulets of hot, black blood across her pale skin.

"Dammit!" She hisses, dropping the ruined cup into the sink to clutch at her injured hand. The pain is sharp, the cut surprisingly deep.

"You should be more careful when handling such fragile things," a voice chides.

Evelyn whips around, eyes already glaring, still clutching her bloodied hand.

"I didn't fucking ask for your op- oh gods..."

The Shade stands behind her, smirking at her with those awful eyes of his.

"I'm...I'm so..so sorry," she stutters out with a pathetic, trembling bow of her head.

_Please, please don't kill me. Don't hurt my little ones..._

When no reply comes, she opens her mouth to start begging, only to flinch as a cold, silken hand grasps her by the chin and tilts her face up. The male is staring at her, expression utterly unreadable as he studies her face - her terror. She holds in a shudder as another set of fingers wraps around her wrist, her body shaking in relief as his gaze falls from her face to study the injury.

"You've cut yourself up pretty badly, haven't you, luv? No matter, it should heal up before tomorrow, what with you being a Pureblood," he remarks with a small, vicious smile.

He might as well have slapped her.

"I...I suppose...suppose it will, yes."

Though he stands a breath shorter than the female, Evelyn can't help but shrink beneath the weight of his gaze, those blood-curdling eyes of his like something from a nightmare. There is not a soul in Kingshelm that doesn't shit themselves at the thought of the damage any one of The Crows could do, especially the gang's nightmarish group of leaders.

_The Shade knows every hidden deed_

_and from his shoulders shadows bleed_

_He watches all with slits of red_

_and makes you wish he'd left you dead_

The words from the blood-chilling children's rhyme drift through her head like some macabre lullaby, the terrifying lyrics sending shivers down her spine. No one knows when or why the children of Kingshelm started singing the song, or even who created it. All anyone knows, is that the rhyme had become a sort of chant among the city's young ones, who often could be found humming the tune or murmuring the words to themselves on the streets. 

As if, by singing it, they could protect themselves from those who've made themselves living nightmares. 

"Let me help you." Without waiting for a response, the male rolls up her sleeve and snatches up an unused rag from the counter, wrapping the pale fabric around her hand with surprising deftness. 

She says nothing, too paralyzed by fear to look away from his pale, quick fingers. They are so gentle, so smooth on her skin, that she is forced to remind herself of the crimes these hands have committed. 

They are a murderer's hands. 

A devil's hands.

"Thank you," she makes herself say when he finishes, her russet eyes wide as she fights to meet his  gaze. 

He does not let go. 

"Is there something you require of me, sir?" She asks shakily, thinking with barely-concealed panic of her young ones, the children who _need_ her. 

She will do anything, sell her very soul if need be, if it means protecting those children.

The murderer smiles, his beautiful face the portrait of vibrant youth. Slowly, as though sharing a precious secret, he leans close enough to brush his lips against her ear and whispers. 

"You're going to help me and a few friends crash tomorrow's little party."

She starts to shake, her breath growing shaky as her mind races with all the awful possibilities. 

"What...what are you going to do?" she murmurs, the question barely more than a breath. 

His lips smile against her skin as his hold on her injured hand tightens. 

"Something naughty, of course."


	10. Faye

Silver is her color, despite the fact that she has never even claimed it as such. Then again, she never needed to - her body proclaimed it to the world the moment she Awakened all those decades ago.

The hair now hanging to her waist, glimmering like spider-silk in the darkness, the magic that once flowed through veins - as pure and lovely as starlight. 

But that had been another lifetime ago, another person ago. Her new gifts are far superior, the boon for which she traded everything. 

She will not allow herself to regret it, even though she cannot forget it. 

Claiming the color, dominating that which nearly destroyed her, gives her power, strength over that which might have become a weakness.

The gown is more than a statement, more than a simple display of her blood-bought wealth. 

It is a symbol.

 It drapes like liquid diamonds, hugging every curve and angle before falling to pool at her feet. Long, glimmering sleeves drape across her arms before ending in cuffs of silver and diamond. The pale expanse of her back is concealed by two panes of shimmering silk that flow from her shoulders in a graceful train. The female's unbound hair is swept back from her face with combs of silver fashioned into ravens in flight, and a collar of diamonds adorns her throat. 

She is regal - a queen with no need of crowns or thrones. 

Zyphyr's eyes, their bronze depths usually deep in thought or cold with blood-lust, had silently agreed when he'd lain eyes on her outside of The Nest. For the first time since she'd met him, the male had no words, no taunt or jab, with which to antagonize her. Perhaps things between the two of them are beginning to change...

The thought makes her hands curl into fists in her lap, her gaze fixed on the passing city streets outside the window of the carriage. The assassin sits across from her, as unwilling to break the silence as she is. 

But nothing can last forever, and she can feel his mind roiling. 

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmurs, voice so soft she wonders for a moment if she might have only imagined it. 

She waits for a retort to form itself on her lips, but her mind and tongue remain painfully blank. Unable to help herself, she turns to look at him, their eyes meeting in the space that feels suddenly, inexplicably constricting. 

If she is a queen in her gown of stars, he is a king of shadows in his ebony garb. Intricate golden embroidery curls around the wrists of his jacket and creeps around the edges of every fold, every point of interest. No doubt the outfit had been a gift from Kaxim, whose obsession with fashion was capped only by his passion for causing trouble.

"You don't look half bad yourself." The words are out before she can fully process that she's said them. 

Zyphyr blinks, clearly surprised to have received a compliment from her when, for the last fifty years, she has only ever been cruel and distant with him. 

With everyone. 

The silence becomes deafening. 

She struggles to come up with something, anything, to say that will make him stop _looking_ at her like that. Like he's seeing her for the first time. 

Only silence greets her - that same, familiar void that fills her soul and drowns her thoughts with ice and rage. 

"Faye-"

"Don't. Don't say whatever it is that you were going to say. Just...stop."She holds up a hand, forcing ice into her eyes. Her heart. 

Zyphyr looks like she's slapped him, his eyes open and hurt. 

The sight makes her chest hurt in a way she does not understand, cannot possibly comprehend. In her veins, her magic roars, ripping its way through her in an effort to escape the pain slowly growing in her soul. 

It is all she can do to keep it from showing on her face - the strain of ignoring that agony, pretending like nothing is wrong. 

Pretending like she is normal, like nothing has or ever will change. 

"Fine." He growls the word, his face tight with emotions undecipherable to her in the pale light of the moons above.

She says nothing, unwilling and unable to form the words that he wants to hear. Instead, she simply turns and resumes her silent vigil of the moonlit city. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The plan has come together beautifully, more so than even Faye expected. Even though there is still a very high chance that they might fail. 

The four of them spent an hour putting together the message they sent back to "M", and none of them were entirely certain if he would even show himself. 

He could easily send a decoy. 

However, Faye can't afford to worry about that, not with so much on the line. 

_Besides,_ she reminds herself. _Things are going so well._  

The invitations, according to Kaxim, had been embarrassingly easy to acquire. In the end, he hadn't even needed to steal them - Mackey had simply handed them over like a frightened child. 

Pathetic. 

The carriage pulls to a stop in front of the palace gates, a royal servant dressed in his finest livery opening the door with a flourished bow that has her fighting the urge to yank the male to his feet. Instead, she takes a steadying breath and, like a practiced actress, morphs into a stranger. 

The female she might have become if things had been different, if _she_ had been different. 

Her frown transforms into a dazzling smile, eyes shining and bright with glorious youth and vibrant beauty. She stands with a graceful, submissive air as Zyphyr offers her a hand, his own mask firmly in place as he waits for her outside the carriage. With practiced perfection, the female accepts the offered hand, bowing her head with a small smile towards the servant, who stares at her like she is a newly minted Goddess. 

At her side, Zyphyr straightens out his suit his gloved hands fumbling. He is unused to such fine clothes, to this part he must play. 

With an inward sigh, Faye takes hold of the tie, undoing the tangles he somehow managed to create. Her fingers move through familiar steps, tying the silken fabric into a perfect knot. Her heart won't stop beating, the pace unusually fast as she straightens the lapels, her eyes pausing for the briefest of moments to admire the subtle gold embroidery hidden like a secret amidst the black fabric. 

"Thank you." He steps back, offering her a hand - his eyes do not meet her own. 

Fighting a frown, she accepts it and they move as one towards the entrance of the palace.

The massive glass doors are open, lined on both sides with guards dressed in the blue and black of their kingdom. Every uniform boasts the King's Crest - a dragon in flight. The sight of the emblem sends a shiver down her spine. 

Above them, peeking over the edge of The Crown, are the three moons. The palace seems almost to glow from their light, illuminating the massive crater in the center of the city like a beacon. The sight of them makes her all the more aware of the hollow in her soul, where light once shone. 

She looks away.

All around them, guests are arriving. Some wear gowns like her own, glimmering like stars in the moonlight, while others have chosen more somber, traditional dress. Among the throng of Daemons - no doubt Purebloods - are beautiful strangers. 

Emissaries - or visiting royalty from other lands across the sea - all staring with wide eyes at the enormous castle, carved from the pale stone making up most of The Crown.  

Not one of them, she notices, is Aingael.

"Let's go," she says, nodding towards the entrance. 

_Don't make me regret agreeing to this, Faye_. Zyphyr's thoughts drift into her mind, his mental barriers open to her power as a way for them to speak covertly. 

She does not bother to reply as they enter the castle.  
  



	11. Faye

The party is just as obnoxiously grand and dazzling as they expected, and she finds herself utterly unimpressed by all the flash and wasteful luxury surrounding them.

Sure, she could appreciate the fine workmanship in the golden goblets and glass flutes of imported Champaign, or acknowledge the masterfully painted portraits and landscapes adorning the gilded walls of the ballroom. She could even admit, if she's being honest, that the chandeliers, each fashioned to resemble a different creature native to their continent, are stunning in their beauty.

But she does none of these things, moving right through the crowd of tittering nobility and gossiping merchants towards the central dance floor, Zyphyr at her side.

It is a massive ballroom, nearly twice the size of any other in the kingdom, and at least three times as expensive. The gold crowning in the ceiling alone could feed the entire city for a year or more.

Such is expected in a King's palace, however.

"Ah, Miss Grey, how lovely to see you again," chortles a passing male, his round body barely fitting into his absurdly white suit.

She forces a smile that feels more like a baring of teeth at the male.

"And you as well, Lord Hendricks. How does your wife fare?" She offers him a gloved hand, upon which the merchant lord places a wet kiss.

_Disgusting_ , she groans imwardly.

The male smiles at that, then begins droning on about how his wife - a frightfully obese female with hair the color of mould - couldn't make the Ball due to yet another pregnancy.

"This little one will be our third in the last 200 years", he boasts.

"Your marriage has been truly blessed by the gods if you have been gifted so many children," she says with a nod, eyes darting over to her companion.

_Do something..._

With a small, amused grin, the male steps forward.

"Indeed, sir. I wish you the best of luck with your family. Oh-" He pauses - a little too theatrically - as the orchestra begins a new waltz. "I believe that is our cue. My Lord, please pardon us, as I have promised Miss Grey a dance."

Hendricks smiles knowingly, waving them off as though they are old friends.

The moment they are out of sight, she rips off her gloves, tossing them onto an unoccupied table as they make their way towards the dance floor.

"I'll go and find Kax. He should be by the refreshments table by now," he says when they reach the edge of the floor, his eyes raking over the dancing nobles with badly hidden disgust. "Try not to get yourself tossed out while I'm gone."

Before she can tell him to fuck off, he vanishes through the crowd.

The assassin is about to make her way to the meeting point, when her eyes latch onto a head of deep, vibrant amethyst among the dancers - Lorcán.

Somewhere deep inside of her being, memories surge, threatening to sweep her away, to ruin everything.

_Shit, shit, shit..._

"You look stunning," whispers a soft, sweet voice behind her.

She spins, her face fixing itself into a calm, guarded smile.

She cannot think about Lorcán right now - she cannot think about him _ever_.

The speaker - a female with long auburn hair and skin the color of cream - smiles at her. She wears a rather scandalous gown of deepest green that hugs her generous curves,  accentuating her lovely, sensual form. Her hair falls in chaotic curls down her back, yet remains somehow far more beautiful than most of the other females' in the room. Behind her, as with nearly all the other guests, flare the Daemon's beautiful, unmarred wings.

She is a complete stranger.

"Thank you," Faye replies carefully. "I must say you look the same."

The other Daemon smiles, the expression strangely familiar in a way the assassin can't quite place. There seems to be a sort of predatory focus in her eyes, which are the exact color of jade.

"I hope I didn't startle you," the female says with a grin that states quite plainly that she would have found it very funny if she had indeed startled her.

Faye smiles, her mind scrambling to place the stranger, who seems impossibly familiar.

"No harm done," she says.

The beauty offers Faye an ungloved hand. "Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. My name is Duana Reid. What's your name?"

"Faye," She answers foolishly, taking it uncertainly.

Around them, nobles and their partners begin pairing up as the next waltz begins on the floor just beyond.

Her companion smiles softly to herself before meeting the silver-haired female's gaze once more.

"May I have this dance?" She asks, nodding towards the floor and the awaiting waltz.

Rhiannon frowns, glancing at the massive, ornate clock adorning one of the western walls.

Nearly midnight.

She's already running late, and if she doesn't hurry she might very well miss her chance at meeting M.

"I am sorry, but I must politely decline. I have business to attend to with one of my associates tonight," she said, gesturing vaguely towards the crowd.

The stranger gives her what could only be described as a knowing look as she replies, "Then I hope to meet you again, in another time or place. Good luck with your business, Faye."

Before she can respond, the Daemon gives a little curtsy and vanishes into the crowd.  
\----------------------------------------------------  
"Tell me, do you always keep your clients waiting?" Asks a smooth, male voice.

She turns to meet the male's gaze, surprised to find the Daemon looking back at her with only one intensely yellow eye, the other covered by a patch woven from golden thread.

It reminds her oddly of the eyes of a bird of prey.

The stranger, who is supposedly her client, stands at least a head taller than her, his rail-thin body clearly not that of a warrior or glutton. His hair and wings are a deep shade of orange, his clothes plain but of fine make.

"Mr. M, I presume?" She asks softly, her voice strong and confident.

He only smiles and offers her his hand.

She does not smile back as she takes it, as they join the other dancers in a simple, elegant waltz.

His hand is freezing.

"I must admit," he says. "I was not expecting _this_ to be our meeting place. It was quite a hassle to acquire an invitation on such short notice."

Faye fights to retain her smile but cannot stop her voice from hardening ever so slightly as she responds.

"I'm afraid I had no choice, Sir. In my line of work, there are too many opportunities for others to betray my trust. This was the only way for us to ensure our own safety. However, you can be sure that we will fulfill whatever task you require. The Crows never disappoint."

Her client's gaze lowers to her tattoo, a crow in flight, talons outstretched, barely visible through the shimmering fabric of her sleeve.  
The same mark that every other member of the gang bares, save for one crucial distinction.

Her crow is a striking, luminous shade of white.

M's smile does not falter as he takes in that tattoo, the death it represents.

"See that you do not." The threat is calm, so much so that her eyes dart across the massive room to where Talon stands, a platter of pastries in his hands.

He, as well as her other companions, are all watching - waiting for M to make a mistake.

She can feel the weight of Zyphyr's gaze on her, ready to rip the male holding her to shreds at a moment's notice.

It makes her gaze harden.

_I do not need their protection_.

"What is the job?" Enough stalling, enough dancing.

A moment passes before M answers, his voice so soft she almost does not hear it.

"I want you to kill the Crown Prince."


	12. Lorcán

He doesn't know her, has never seen her before in his life, but there is something unshakably familiar about that silver-haired beauty across the ballroom. He's been watching her for several minutes, ever since he caught a glimpse of her audacious gown - like woven moonlight.

Like an Aingael's blood.

He can't stop watching her dance, even as some baser instinct in his veins longs to rip her from the arms of that odd one-eyed male. Her movements are elegant, refined - as though she has been dancing waltzes since she was a small child.

Impossible. None of the Twelve Clans claim hair like that.

Unless she got it during her Awakening? But then her power must have been unfathomably powerful or rare...

Hmm...

Even so, he knows nothing of any noble girl with hair like starlight.

Or ones with no wings.

_A common female with the grace of an empress..._

The female in his arms seems to realize that he isn't paying her any attention, because she gives a small, delicate cough. "Does something trouble you, Highness?"

With an inward growl, he tears his eyes away from the couple and down to meet the girl - Gráinne O'Brien - staring up at him with barely-concealed jealousy.

She had, without a doubt, seen him staring at the other female.

"No, nothing," he replies with his most distracting smile, letting his hand drift lower down her back ever-so-slightly.

Even he, with his nototiously high standards, can see that she is beautiful. Her skin is the deep, warm brown of her bloodline and her hair is a pure, rich ebony that frames her face in tight, lovely coils. But it is the female's midnight blue eyes that make people pause to stare, only to linger on her delicate curves and onyx wings.

Gráinne quickly relents, giving him a smug, hungry grin.

He knows that she wants him, wants his crown, as most every other girl at this ridiculous party does. He gave up trying to give a shit about which one he'll end up with a long time ago, when the only one he actually desired up and vanished in the dead of day.

Lorcán can still remember the way she smiled at him, the way she seemed to see _him_ and not his crown. Not the beast prowling beneath his skin.

"If I may be so bold," murmured the Lady with a secret smile. "I must admit you seem...preoccupied this evening. Perhaps there is something I can do to help you _relax_?"

She is beautiful, her family respected and powerful enough that her being seen following him to his rooms would send a clear, resounding message to the other Clans, one that may very well end in a marriage alliance between her bloodline and the crown.

He should agree, should move forward with their courtship so that his mother fill finally stop hounding him about marriage.

But a glimmer of silver flashes in the corner of his eye, and he looks before he can even think to stop himself.

The tall male with the orange hair has pulled her close, his mouth whispering in her ear words that she clearly does not expect as her eyes widen. Then, as though she'd been watching him too, as though she'd known exactly where he'd be standing, her eyes meet his, full of surprise and fear and - 

"His Majesty, King Domnall of House Ó Maoilriain, Lord of The southern Isles and the great kingdom of Mothìr!"

His father has arrived.


	13. Kaxim

They hadn't planned for this, for the King to show up out of the blue and give some grand speech. Usually, the bastard sits on his marble throne, utterly silent as he drinks himself into oblivion. 

And that's when he bothers to show up at all. 

"We need to go. Now." Zyphyr says, his eyes fixed on Faye, who is still standing next to the male they all assume must be "M". Her eyes are wide as she takes in King Domnall, standing atop the dais with his golden goblet raised high as he prepares to make a toast to his own glory. Like his monstrous heir, the king is beautiful, with warm skin and that vibrant amethyst hair that has dominated the royal bloodline for three thousand years. Unlike his son, however, the male's age has long since begun to show, wrinkles lining his once-porcelain skin, silver threading through his beard and hair.

This is expected, of course, from a Daemon nearing his ninth century. Already, there are rumors that the king's legendary power is fading more with every moon. There's even some talk that he might step down, giving up the throne to Lorcán before the young prince even reaches his third century. 

Kaxim frowns, knowing that something must be truly wrong to have left Faye so distracted during such an important job. 

Unless...

Unless this job isn't what they'd expected.

_But that's impossible_ , he chides himself. _No one would ever be so stupid_. 

But then the female turns, not bothering to respond to the male that turns to say something to her - most likely asking for confirmation about the contract - and make her way over to where the two of them are standing. 

"Where is Talon?" She asks, sounding out of breath despite having walked. 

Something must be very, _very_ wrong. 

"He's already gone to secure Kax's exit. He'll meet us at the apartment," Zyphyr answers, not missing a beat. 

Kaxim is already moving away, nothing more than a royal servant on his way to procure more refreshments for the couple. 

As he moves away, he catches the barest slips of their conversation, his inferior hearing unable to pick up their voices even in the growing silence as the king drones on about the welfare of the kingdom. 

"What happened? You look like you've seen a banshee."

"- This land has endured much in the many centuries I have had the privilege to rule over it. Our people are at last entering a time of hard-won peace and prosperity, a blessing from the Gods and the fruits of our labor here in the capitol. Nothing pleases me more than to see my country in so great a time, and to be able at last to make this most memorable of declarations."

"Now isn't the time...back at Kax's...wait, what is he saying?"

The room is silent, utterly and completely silent, as the king  calls for his heir to join him atop the dais. 

From the look of confusion on the young male's face, edged as it always is in vanity and pride, it seems not even the heir himself understands what's happening. Lorcán says nothing as he takes the steps up to the dais, where his father places a hand upon his shoulder. 

A show - all of it - to fool the visiting nobility that the Royal Family is anything but dysfunctional.

"My son, Prince Lorcán of the House Ó Maoilriain, has grown into a fine and worthy male. I have no doubt that, in my absence, he shall make a fine king. My time upon this earth is growing short, and my power is not what it once was. As King of Mothìr, I must place the safety and well-being of my people above my own desires. I do not make this decision lightly, but for the betterment of this kingdom. This Winter Solstice, we will hold a grand ball to celebrate my son's coronation. Until then, I shall continue to serve my country to the best of my ability. May the gods grant us favor!"

"Long live the king!" Answered the crowd, a bit belatedly,  joining the king in a toast. 

Through it all, Kaxim's eyes never leave the prince, who looks as though he'd just been sentenced to death by fire.


	14. Talon

Things have gone to shit.

Well, not entirely - they have the information they went for.

By that standard, he can only assume the plan went off without a hitch, however, there is a slight problem.

Faye is gone - up and vanished as soon as she finished telling them about the job.

Now, Zyphyr paces the living room, mumbling curses to himself as Kaxim lounges on the large, blue chaise lounge across the room and makes his way through what appears to be an entire cask of brandy. Talon sits alone in the corner, silently observing the scene with growing annoyance.

The young Daemon opens his mouth to speak, only for Kaxim to shoot him a glare that reminds him, suddenly, of exactly _why_ the strange male has such a blood-curdling reputation.

_Fine then_ , he shoots back mutely with a glare of his own. _But I'm not staying here to watch you old bastards die of boredom and bad tempers_.

He stands, the motion barely earning a glance from the thief, who appears to have grown bored of Talon and returned to his alcohol. Aggravated, horny, and more than a little pissed at having wasted an hour on these assholes, Talon shows himself out through the window, his dark wings aching at having been folded up for so long.

The apartment, while lavishly furnished and well cared for, lies in what his ilk call "Shadow Alley", a street hidden in the twisting casms of the East Branch of the canyon. It earned its name for being one of the few areas of the city with absolutely no natural light, either from distant skylight filtering through gaps in the rock or the seemingly endless sea of glowing plants or bugs or whatever the Hell covers most of the cavern roofs in the canyon.

It's impossible to tell what time it is here, where only a Daemon's eyes can pierce through the thick darkness. He's pretty sure sundown should still be a few hours away, though.

Which means he can see Alyssa.

_Maybe she can make sense of all this..._

Doubtful, but riding on that thought, the male quickens his pace, wings beating furiously as he makes his way through the winding passages of the canyon. It's a long flight, and the hour means that few of the city's privledged residents will have risen, leaving only a feeble stream of low-class workers to witness his passing.

The traffic is light in the tunnels, few of his kind willing to fly the confusing maze of passages carved into the walls and instead favoring the more direct routes along the canyon. However, even Talon must admit to having gotten lost more than a few times inside these gods-forsaken caves.

Alyssa would likely laugh in his face is she saw him like this, pissed off and railing inwardly about something so mundane. She isn't the type to anger easily -or even get flustered - a fact that had saved his sorry arse time and time again.

_If you get all bothered by little things, the big ones will destroy you_ , she often says. He knows better than to doubt her.

It's then that the tunnel opens into the South End, one of the nicer areas inhabited by everyday city-folk. Here live bakers, smiths, seamstresses, grocers, and every other sort of simple, boring person. Plain, well-tended homes occupied the majority of the End, as the cave's ceiling opened in a massive maw that aloud in several miles of skylight - a luxury these Daemons no doubt paid for in full.

The rest of the area is shops, small businesses mostly, little parks, and paths for strolling about or whatever it is that these types of sods do for fun.

This sort of peaceful, residential area full of quiet, hard-working people is exactly the type of place he came to Kingshelm to get the hell away from.

However, if Aly refuses to come to him, he must continue to see her here, where she stays cooped up all night pretending to be a gods-damned slave.

Curse the king and all his blood-purist bullshit.

Without even seeming to look, his body guides him through the crimson-lit neighborhood, wings functioning more on memory then anything else as Talon fights to cool his boiling blood.

The last thing he needs is to show up in a temper. Aly would just _love_ that.

The thought steadies him, forces a grin onto his lips despite all the shit that's happened. Nothing makes him smile like Alyssa, not that she could ever know it. The clever little Silver would hold it over him the rest of his bloody life, and he can't well allow that, now can he?

After all, he has a reputation to maintain.

_The Dealer,_ some called him. Others, _The Black_ _Joker_. Honestly, he thinks "Joker" would be fine by itself, but he knows better than to complain.

Not that Aly gives half a shite about his reputation or what shady names anyone calls him. She's only ever called him one thing, whether he liked it or not. He'd been given zero choice, and so the name stuck.

Besides, he likes it.

Not that he'd ever tell _her_ that.

At that thought, the familiar house comes into view, it's pale stone walls glowing scarlet in the sun's fading light. He can see the home's front garden with its Apple tree and little flowers, the cobbled walkway leading up to the simple entrance. In the back, another garden grows, rows and rows of herbs and life-saving ingredients grown in the guise of yet more flowers or even vegetables.

More importantly, he can see that her balcony doors are open in a silent invitation.

How she always knows when he's coming, he's never known.

Smiling like a fool, Talon lands, his wings folding on instinct as he strides into Aly's room.

"Knock, knock," he chuckles. "Room service for one."

"Ástin!"

And just like that, there she is, her arms thrown around him as she pulls him into a tight embrace, a glorious smile on her face.

His dark arms pull her in closer, wrapping around her as he breathes in the female's scent.

He can never get enough if it; warm and familiar, yet hinting at a land he'll never see.

Wind and sun and growing things.

Aly releases him slightly, pulling back to look at his face, her brown eyes, so at odds with everything in his world, narrowing slightly at whatever she sees written behind his smile. Freckled cheeks shift as her pretty mouth turns down in a concerned frown.

"What happened?" She asks, her sweet voice worried, her expression troubled.

Talon frowns. He came here to confide in her, to see if she can help him sort through everything, but now that he's here all he wants to is hold her. However...

"It's nothing, Aly, just Faye being Faye. We're working a job right now and something got her worked up. She won't tell us what's wrong, though, as per usual, so I'm not gonna bother worrying about it."

He never lies to her, not Aly.

Alyssa nods, understanding. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Now," she says with a grin. "Tell me why you decided to show up right as I'm getting ready to sleep? Don't you know it's rude to interupt a female's beauty rest?"

This is why he loves her, why he'd fallen head over heels for her - she always knows when to push and when to give him room. Her playful grin, the change of subject, her little way of saying that she gets it.

That she gets _him_.

"You don't need anymore beauty rest," he murmurs, capturing her lips with his own.

She lets him pull her close, breathing in the scent of her as the kiss deepens, sweeping away his worries in a way nothing else ever could.

"I love you," she tells him, her mouth curling into a smile against his skin, the promise of those words worth more than any sum of Fé.

He pulls back just enough to study her, to let himself take in all of what those words encompassed.

Aly. His beautiful, perfect Aly with her braid of brown and gold, those eyes that stun him every time he sees them, her sun-kissed skin and endless freckles. The simple dresses, always hand-sewn and lovely. Her kind, open smile. The way she moves like a dancer, sure and graceful.

Those gods-damned wings of hers, more beautiful than any Daemons. A million silken feathers, each the same warm brown as her hair, edged ever so lightly in deepest gold.

She is exquisite.

They were never even supposed to meet. That she had survived so long in Kingshelm must be some sort of miracle. Her kind and his despise one another, so much so that, were it descovered that Aly isn't actually a slave to Drevon, she'd be killed.

But they _had_ met. She'd saved his life. Given him a future, a desire to _have_ that future, so long as she remained a part of it.

An Aingael and a Daemon.

"I love you, too," he promises, taking her hand in his, their fingers intertwining.

_Always_...


End file.
